


Shifting

by draculard



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Horror, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Nightmares, Pining, Rorschach and Walter Kovacs as separate entities, Therapy, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Rorschach's been dead for ten years now, but he still comes to Dan at night.
Relationships: Dan Dreiberg/Rorschach, Mentioned Dan Dreiberg/Laurie Juspeczyk
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	Shifting

He’s sleeping next to Laurie every time it happens. Sometimes, Dan can tell he’s dreaming before anything loopy even happens — but not with dreams like these. These dreams are so real he wakes up and, in the minutes it takes for him to adjust to the dark, thinks they’re real.

Rorschach’s been dead for ten years now, but he still comes to Dan at night.

* * *

He doesn’t talk to Laurie about it; he talks to his _therapist_ , sure, but the details are disguised.

Dan says: “I have this old friend, this coworker, really. He died ten years ago.”

After a pause, Dr. Frisch inclines his head and looks at Dan over the top of his glasses. He gives Dan time to go on; when he stays silent, Dr. Frisch is ready with a question. 

“Were you close?” he asks.

Dan doesn’t know how to answer that. He stares down at his clasped hands, drags the edge of his thumbnail down his wrist.

“He just … shows up some nights,” Dan says, not glancing up once. All he can see of Dr. Frisch are his crossed legs, his new leather shoes. “It’s so realistic it takes me forever to realize I’m dreaming. I wake up — or I _think_ I do — and when I roll over, I see him just standing there. At the side of the bed. Staring down at me.”

This time, he falls silent on purpose, determined to hear what Dr. Frisch thinks of this. He knows what Laurie would say — that’s why he hasn’t told her. He tells himself Dr. Frisch won’t come to the same conclusion.

“This friend …” Dr. Frisch says, and Dan tenses in anticipation. “What was his name?”

That’s not the question Dan was expecting. He finds himself suddenly capable of looking Dr. Frisch more or less in the eye. 

“Walter,” he says.

Harmless decision, he tells himself, to use Rorschach’s real name. Hardly anyone remembers it anymore. Hell, hardly anyone remembers Rorschach.

“Sam, tell me what you know about grief,” Dr. Frisch says. 

This gives Dan pause. It isn’t exactly what he expects Laurie would say. He stares down at his hands again.

“It’s not grief,” he says, rather than answer the question. “I’m not in mourning. It was a long time ago.”

If Dan were the therapist here, he knows exactly what he’d say next. _Grief doesn’t have a strict timeline._ But Dr. Frisch doesn’t say anything of the sort; he stays quiet, forcing Dan to go on.

“And it’s not a _sad_ dream,” he says.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“It’s not a _good_ dream, either,” Dan says, examining the white half-moon on his thumbnail. He digs the edge into his skin, letting the pain distract him. “It’s…” The word comes out of him unbidden. “It’s unsettling.”

There’s an agonizing pause after this. Dr. Frisch doesn’t so much as blink or shift in his seat; he stares at Dan blankly, no expression on his face, no indication of what he’s going to do or say next. For someone with years of training as a vigilante — decades of experience reading opponents, searching for behavioral cues — this is torture.

“You didn’t tell me these were nightmares,” Dr. Frisch says finally, without weight.

“They’re not,” Dan insists. “Nothing _happens_ in them. It’s not like he chases me down or — yells abuse in my face or — you know, it’s not _scary_. It’s just _unsettling_. He stands there, and he — he doesn’t _move_ , he doesn’t _speak_ , it’s…”

He clasps his hands. He clasps them tightly, leaving white indentations on his skin where his fingernails dig into flesh. His leg is bouncing, his foot tapping. His own leather shoes are scuffed and cheap, and he finds himself comparing them with Dr. Frisch’s almost neurotically.

It helps to think about stupid shit like shoes.

It helps to distract himself.

* * *

A little more than a week after that appointment, Dan wakes up sweating and throws the blankets off him, and when he pushes his glasses onto his nose, he sees it.

Rorschach again. Standing at the sight of the bed.

He sees the old, familiar trench coat, perfectly tailored but made shiny by grease. The pinstriped trousers, the worn fedora, the scarf drawn tight ‘round Rorschach’s throat. 

Dan looks down and catches sight of Rorschach’s leather gloves. He remembers the creaking noise they made when Rorschach formed a fist, but right now, those hands are relaxed, the fingers pointing at the floor.

If he concentrates, he can remember the stinging scent of body odor and unwashed clothes so vividly he can’t be sure whether he’s really imagining it or not. He eyes Rorschach’s chest, but beneath so many layers, he can’t tell whether it’s rising and falling the way it’s supposed to. He can’t tell if he’s looking at Rorschach or if he’s looking at a statue.

Beside him, Laurie is dead asleep, oblivious to the world around her. She doesn’t notice the mattress shifting under Dan’s weight. He glances back at her, pulls his legs up close to his chest, wraps his arms around his knees and watches Rorschach.

He forces himself to look at the mask.

* * *

“What’s so unsettling about it?” Dr. Frisch asks.

“What isn’t unsettling about it?” Dan responds. “Seeing somebody you used to know just standing there, and — I mean, I shouldn’t say — he isn’t just somebody I used to know. He’s my friend. He was my friend for years, or my coworker, or … whatever. So it’s weird, yeah, to see him again.

“And he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t move. He just…

“And his face is…”

_His face._

Dr. Frisch doesn’t notice the slip. How could he? To Dr. Frisch, Walter is just Walter. To Dr. Frisch, this nebulous figure Dan’s told him about is a normal man.

“He doesn’t look like himself?” Dr. Frisch hazards.

Dan tears at his own cuticles. He does it with his hands folded in his lap so Dr. Frisch can’t see what he’s doing.

“No,” Dan says. “He doesn’t look like himself at all.”

* * *

His elbow is just barely touching Laurie’s side. He can feel her breathing, and it comforts him. It would comfort him even more to look at her, to turn his head to the left and concentrate on her instead, to pretend there’s no one standing just inches away.

But he can’t do that. He folds his arms over his knees; he lays his head down, rests his cheek against the bare skin of his forearms, allows himself to take Rorschach in.

The mask isn’t moving. That’s what’s troubling him, he thinks. It’s a stationary, static image. A pattern caught mid-shift. The blots look like somebody trying to breathe who can’t quite manage to draw a breath. He’s seen people like that before; he’s seen Rorschach put criminals in headlocks; he’s watched them struggling for air.

That’s what the blots look like. They try to shift the way they’re supposed to; they can’t. To Dan, it seems like they’re standing utterly still and at the same time vibrating so fast he can barely see it. Like molecules exposed to the heat. 

“Rorschach?” Dan whispers.

The figure doesn’t move.

* * *

“Have you tried speaking to him?” Dr. Frisch asks.

The answer is automatic. Dan shakes his head before he can even think of a response. He crosses his legs, mimicking Dr. Frisch’s posture, and tries to get his nervous energy under control.

“Perhaps you should try,” Frisch says. “Some people, Sam, have dreams of loved ones during the mourning process. You might find it helpful to say something to him — to hold a conversation. You might find closure.”

Closure. Dan cuts his eyes to the left, examining Dr. Frisch’s bookshelves, and in his mind he sees Walter Kovacs dissolving into a cloud of black dust.

“I don’t think I _want_ to talk to him,” Dan says.

Dr. Frisch waits patiently for him to explain. 

“I don’t think I _should_ talk to him,” Dan amends. 

“You’re afraid of what he might say,” Dr. Frisch says with a nod. Dan’s foot starts bouncing again; he clamps his fingers down hard on the arm of his chair and forces himself to stop.

“I don’t think he’ll say anything,” he says, “but that’s not it.”

* * *

In the morning, he’ll turn the TV on while he makes his coffee and eggs. The drone of daytime television filters in one ear, half-absorbed, until he hears something that makes him leave the kitchen and stand in the doorway to the den.

He’s standing there with a cold, uncracked egg in one hand and the other braced against the doorframe, wearing nothing but his boxers as he stares at the TV. Then he hears that phrase again.

 _Astral projection,_ says a woman on TV.

Dan’s eyebrows furrow.

 _You’re saying you actually_ leave your body _during the night,_ says the host, putting emphasis on every word for the folks at home, _and that millions of people worldwide do the same._

 _Yes. Astral projection is almost as common as any other physical quirk,_ the woman says. _Some people can roll their tongues, some people can invert their eyelids, and some people … can astral project._

The host squares his shoulders and turns to face the camera. He leans in for an explanation. _But it’s not all fun and games with astral projection,_ he says. _I’ve been told it can be a very dangerous business, as well._

Slowly, Dan backs into the kitchen again and lays the egg on the counter, pushing it ever so slightly away from him so it doesn’t roll off and hit the floor. He’s back to the den in a heartbeat, and only misses a few moments of the show.

 _Yes, I’ve seen my loved ones before,_ the woman says. _Specifically, my grandma. The thing you must remember is … it may look like your grandma. It may sound like your grandma. But it’s not. You know it’s not._

_And you don’t know who’s wearing her face._

* * *

He reaches out. His fingers touch Rorschach’s. Rather, his fingers touch Rorschach’s leather gloves. He can’t feel any body heat beneath the leather; he can’t feel the movement of twitching muscles that come from any living animal; he can’t feel the tension of an alert vigilante trying to be still.

But he knows this feeling, the old, cracked leather against his skin. He’s touched Rorschach’s hands thousands of times. 

He _knows_ it.

So he looks up — he forces himself to — and he takes in the static pattern on Rorschach’s mask again, watches the viscous black and white fluid as it tries desperately to shift inside the latex. Watches it fail. His fingers twitch against Rorschach’s — touching, but not taking, his hand.

Just touching.

Dan swallows. His voice, when he speaks, is hoarse. It sounds too loud in the room, like it'll wake Laurie up, but it doesn't.

“I want to talk to Walter.”

The pattern stutters. The memory — the dream — the statue before him doesn’t move. Dan’s voice drops down to a whisper, his throat dry.

“Please. Let me…”

He moves his index finger, draws it up the line of Rorschach’s glove, tracing the other man’s hands so gently he can barely feel it himself. He closes his eyes, presses his face harder into his folded arms.

Forces himself to look again.

“Let me speak with Walter.”

Forces himself to look at the immobile mask.

Forces himself to look at the area where Rorschach’s mask meets Walter’s skin.

Forces himself to admit what he’s known since the beginning:

That he can’t find the seam.


End file.
